do I wanna know?
by phaenomenaa
Summary: It's too early for the birds to be chirping. America/England, fluff. HUMAN AU.


It's too goddamn early for the birds to be chirping, and he really, really wants to sleep, but fuck it, Alfred just can't. Normally, he's an early riser—as in, he _enjoys _getting up in the morning, and he wakes up pretty happy and energetic. (Apparently it's _weird_, or so he's been told. Then again, Matt's just grumpy when he gets up, and he's the odd brother—he's born in _Canada_.) Alfred turns over in bed, checking the alarm clock at his right; 5:18 AM. _Fuck_.

He slides out of his sheets, sitting up as one hand scrubs the sleepiness out of his weary eyes, the other reaching out for his glasses on his bedside table. Alfred slips the spectacles on—which, he likes to point out with childish pride, make him look like Clark Kent—and bends at the waist to slip on a pair of boxer briefs lying on his bedroom floor. He pads on the hardwood planks towards the stairs, because stairs equal kitchen, and kitchen equals coffee. _God, coffee_, Alfred thinks, _it's heaven sent._

The kitchen is of a light shade of pink, the sun still lazing about on the horizon. Alfred likes the colour, he thinks, but it's still too early and he's still frustrated about the birds chirping so loudly. (Common sense wants to tell him that birds wake with the sunrise, but the American doesn't like common sense.) He places his favourite cup underneath the nozzle of his coffee machine, punches in the buttons for a good old vanilla latte, and waits standing against the counter, arms crossed.

"Oh, bollocks!" There's a light clamour outside, and what seems to be the sound of cardboard boxes toppling over. Alfred turns, striding across the kitchen towards the living room, and glances outside his window, catching sight of what appears to be a very angry man, hands propped on hips, yelling at packages that litter his front lawn. The machine beeps from the kitchen, signalling the ever so praised latte to be ready but Alfred ignores it and opens the front door. He leans into the doorway, watching the smaller man.

"Morning, neighbour!" he yells out, despite the fact that he _is_ half-naked, clad in but his boxer briefs.

The man turns, startled. "Ah! good morning, I suppose—what—_where are your pants_?"

Alfred looks down, briefly having forgotten his attire. "Oh, yeah! Forgot about those—be right back!" He turns back inside and rushes upstairs to his bedroom, fishing out of his dresser a pair of plaid pyjama pants (courtesy of his brother, who likes to reinforce Canadian stereotypes for whichever bizarre reason.) He pulls them on, teetering from one side to the other before grabbing onto the wooden railing and racing back downstairs, eager to meet this new persona.

"So, you're new around here," Alfred starts, walking out to stand next to his new neighbour, grinning his star-like smile.

The young man frowns at the American, who is still _not_ wearing a shirt (not that he really minds.) "I moved in last night."

Alfred raises a golden eyebrow when he notes the accent that differs so very much frown his own. "You're not from around here, right?"

"I'm English," he states dryly.

"Hey, that's cool! Pip pip cheerio, amiright?" Alfred grimaces at the horrible thing his fake accent is, and _good job, asshole, now he's going to think you _are_ an actual asshole._

The Englishman scowls an even deeper frown and answers a dry 'right' before turning to pick up his boxes. _So much for him being hot_, he thinks.

Alfred recovers quickly and bends along with him, wanting to help out. "Here, let me."

The new neighbour looks at him warily but nods slowly, still not very trusting of this odd young man as he passes over one of his heavy cartons.

"Name's Alfred, by the way. Alfred F. Jones!" The American introduces, straightening as he juts out a hand, cradling the box with the other.

"Arthur Kirkland," his neighbour replies, firmly shaking the held out hand.

Alfred follows the Englishman through the threshold of the new house, eyes fixed on the interior design. He copies his neighbour and sets the packages on the ground, next to a large staircase. Alfred turns towards the smaller man, smiling proudly, and notes the rhythmic music in the background.

"_…'Cause there's this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow and I play it on repeat…_"

Arctic Monkeys. This guy likes _the_ Arctic Monkeys?

"You like them?" Alfred asks out of the blue, staring into Arthur's eyes (and damn, that's a nice shade of green.)

"Beg your pardon?" Arthur inquires, confused.

"The Arctic Monkeys. You like their music?"

"Oh! Yeah, yeah, I quite fancy it," Arthur replies, with a nonchalant air.

"Me too!" The young American grins, glad to learn that his new neighbour enjoys them. He turns, walking out of the house back to the car, smiling this goofy smile, 'cause, he doesn't know why, but he's really happy about the fact that Arthur Kirkland likes the Arctic Monkeys. He picks up what seems to be the last box from the trunk, and walks back inside the house, singing along as he shuts the front door.

"_…Do I wanna know?…If this feeling flows both ways?…_"

He stares at the Englishman, smiling still, and boy, does his stomach do wonders. Alfred's kinda glad the birds woke him up early this morning. Which reminds him—why is this guy up so early?

"What are you doing unpacking so early in the morning?" Alfred asks, curious.

"I normally like early mornings," Arthur starts, "although I have to admit today I woke up perhaps a little bit too early. Jitters, I guess." He looks at Alfred, and normally he's never this straightforward, but hey, this guy's pretty cute. Even for an American. "Would you mind helping me unpack?"

This guy likes the Arctic Monkeys _and_ early mornings? Hell fucking yeah, Alfred wants to help unpack. He completely forgets his cooling heaven-sent latte on his kitchen table because he's got something _better_.


End file.
